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March 26, 2007
The Story of Mr. Sheffield, Part I.
"So whaddya think, doc?"
I sat nervously biting my fingernails. The doctor, no doubt making use of his training, sat austere, and calmly reviewed my file. His white coat stood in stark contrast to the black mood which enveloped my mind.
When a car rattles for a mile or two, some people take notice. When a car pings and knocks for a month, a few more are likely to observe it. But when a car smokes and knocks, only a fool ignores it.
With shame I admit I acted the fool. For too long I ignored the warning signs that told of the breakdown of this human machine.
"Your case is quite singular, Mr. Sheffield."
The doctor's voice sounded distant through the clouds of confusion that darkened my reason.
"I have never," he continued, "seen an actual case like yours. Oh don't get me wrong. During my training we studied textbook cases which described symptoms that were similar to yours. Our professors told us, in theory, what we should do if ever a patient of ours should have just such an affliction. And yet," He paused, chuckled mirthlessly, and then continued. "And yet, I must confess their theories seem trivial froth when I see an actual case of what was, before, purely theoretical."
I laughed nervously.
"Which brings me back to my original question, doc: Whaddya think?"
"I think," he said, closing my file with somewhat more of a finality than I would have liked. "I think..."
But this was as far as he got. He leaned back in his great, squeaky leather chair, pulled the rectangular glasses off his face, and rubbed the bridged of his nose, slowly. After a few minutes, a sigh escaped him.
That single, solitary answered my questions far better than words ever could.
I smiled, weakly, physically straining with the effort.
"There's no hope then, eh?"
His eyes were still closed. With a grim, sorrowful expression etched in his face, he sadly shook his head from side to side.
For a few minutes we sat in silence. Outside his office, the afternoon sun persistently strove to pierce the gloom that enveloped his office and my mind. I could see the birds, but couldn't hear them, twittering, full of glee, in the branches of a dogwood that was rooted near his window.
A single, bitter tear rolled down my ashen cheek. Opening his eyes, the doctor looked at me and offered a compassionate smile.
"You could," he said, but I stopped him.
"No. I couldn't. And even if I could, I wouldn't." He nodded, knowingly. "I'm not dead yet." I said with more persuasion than I actually felt. "I'm not dead yet." I repeated again.
He nodded. "That's true, Mr. Sheffield. That's very true."
"There may yet be hope." I cried suddenly, in paroxysm of euphoria. My eyes shone with emotion. "I've heard...I've heard that in France scientists have developed a new, albeit untested," I admitted...he stopped me short with a look.
"Mr. Sheffield, I have practiced medicine for nearly thirty years. There has never been--heed me, Mr. Sheffield--there has never been a single case to unfolded as you now hope."
I frowned slightly as he continued.
"You would do well to make the best use of the time that is remaining to you. The only cure for you is that from which no man ever returns."
Continued...
Fiction , Writings | By Carl | 01:55 AM
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